


Visions of Things to Pass

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Post -7 x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Left on his own after their unsettling conversation about Sansa's wedding to Ramsey Bolton, Bran has another vision about Sansa--and it involves their cousin, Jon.





	Visions of Things to Pass

“I have to go back inside, Bran,” Sansa said, rattled to verge of tears. Clutching her furs around her, she whirled around and left.

“I’ll stay here a moment longer,” Bran said after her. The daze of the vision had yet to leave him.

He’d lived through every moment with her that night; felt her revulsion at having to be courteous to the men who murdered their mother and Robb; felt the fear pulsing through her as she met Ramsey Bolton’s demonic gaze under the Heart Tree, the humiliation and anguish of what came to pass after. He meant what he said to her. He was so sorry for everything she had been through. But there was not much else he could do for her.

On his way to Winterfell from Castle Black, Bran had caught glimpses of how she and Theon escaped Winterfell during Stannis Baratheon’s failed siege, how she reunited with Jon at Castle Black, convinced him to retake the north. His heart had lurched on hearing them reminisce about their childhood. In his short time as the three-eyed raven, Bran had witnessed so much from so many centuries that his own memories—the ones he shared with Sansa and Jon—seemed several lifetimes away. Yet, a part of him remembered, and they were so deeply ingrained in him that if he devoted enough effort he could forget all the misery he had known since his fall from the tower. He could remember he was once a jolly lad who loved and cared for nothing but stories, climbing high walls, his dire pup, and his family.

It was that long forgotten part of him, the part he assumed dead, that felt guilty as his eyes focused on Sansa’s retreating figure. She was still the soft-spoken, caring sister he remembered as a boy, but the endearing naivety that defined her then no longer existed. No, her meek and courteous disposition hid steel armor underneath. Armor that made her a figurehead in the Long Night to come. Still…even the most well-crafted armor had its chinks, and Bran had just driven a blade through hers.

Perhaps it was for the best. He had not returned to Winterfell to be the trueborn son of House Stark. To be Sansa’s brother. The three-eyed raven’s only tie was to the realm. To time. To history.

The leaves of the Heart Tree he sat under rustled alive. Resting his head on its trunk, Bran touched the carved face and let the rustling leaves whisk him away to the black vacuum. The snowflakes wetting his hair face evaporated. A flurry of doors into unknown places sped past him. Gaining control of his legs, he braced himself at the changing entries before stepping into the flickering colors.

The blur solidified into blues, whites, greys, warm browns of sturdy woodwork and yellows of torch-lit corridors. He was still in Winterfell. By the looks of it, in the family keep. Only, the smell of varnish on the newly installed beams was not as strong as it had been when he arrived. And though the castle had been much warmer than what he had grown used to, it was significantly warmer than when he was last inside.

Men’s voices carried down the corridor. Accompanying them were the incoherent mutterings of—

Bran strained his ears. Those soft mumblings, they belonged to a child.

Turning up a bend, walking towards him came Jon and a grey-bearded man Bran had come to know as Davos Seaworth. Sporting flecks of grey in his beard and tamed hair, Bran’s brother—no cousin—looked wiser than he had in his last vision. Toddling behind them, overworking his small legs to keep up with the men deep in conversation about state matters, was a boy barely two name-days old. He was the picture of Jon with unruly black curls and a face that, though rounded with milk for the time being, would grow to be drawn, slightly solemn.

The babe waved a wooden wolf carving at the two men. He ran out of breath, falling further and further behind them. His nonsensical ramblings grew louder but neither man paid him any heed. Finally, the child chucked his wolf to the floor and fell flat on his bum, whining.

Slowing to a halt with a sigh, Jon exchanged a knowing look with Ser Davos before turning around. Bottom lip jutted out in an incredulous pout, the boy held his arms out, making grabbing gestures with his tiny hands. Jon reluctantly shot him a reproachful look, but the boy stood his ground.

A woman’s frazzled voice chimed up the winding corridor. “Benjen? Benjen?” In ran a plump nursemaid. She looked from the child to Jon. A splash of beet red colored her cheeks. “Your Grace, forgive me.”

“Daddy!” Benjen cried, still clenching and unclenching his chubby fists at Jon.

Jon waved the nursemaid away. “It’s all right. He can come with me.” He strode over to Benjen, scooped him up and gave him a kiss. “I don’t think he’ll have it any other way.”

“Your Grace,” the nursemaid said again. She curtsied bashfully and hurried away.

Benjen wasted no time pointing Jon to the door leading out to the courtyard.

“Little rascal you are,” Jon tickled his boy’s stomach, eliciting stifled giggles, “Sending the nurse into a fit like that.”

They made for the door only to be stopped again.

“Puppy!” Benjen insisted, clutching Jon’s collar. “Puppy!”

Jon wheeled about. “Where’s the puppy? Ah, there.” Picking it up, he asked Benjen before handing it over, “Can you say ‘wolf?’”

“Woof,” replied Benjen with an enthusiastic jerk of his head.

“Wolf.”

“Woof.”

Ser Davos chuckled. “And what sound does the ‘woof’ make, lad?”

“ _Woof woof woof!”_ Little Benjen declared, proud at having made his father smile.

Bran followed them to the training yard where Jon set the boy down. From the barrel of training equipment, he pulled out the smallest wooden sword. Bran muffled a gasp. He had held that sword once. As had Rickon. Jon wrapped Benjen’s hand around the hilt and drew away. Grinning from ear to ear, sword in one hand, wolf toy in other, Benjen waved the play-weapon in the air and tossed it in the air like a spear.

Disquieted, Jon bent over to pick it up.

“Oh, don’t look so concerned, Your Grace,” Ser Davos said warmly. “He’s too young. He’ll make a fine swordsman when his day comes.”

“ _Wuu-oord_ ,” Benjen drawled as his father put the sword back in his hand. He launched it into the air again and ran off, abandoning practice. “Mummy!”

Bran’s gaze swept past Benjen to find the woman who had taken his lady mother’s place in the castle. His breath caught in his throat. She wasn’t just any lady from a noble house, northern or southern. Neither was she a Wildling. She was Sansa—glowing, happy, and big with child.

Running up to her, Benjen caught hold of her skirts and begged to be picked up.

“Hold on!” Jon called after him, preventing Sansa from bending down. He hauled the boy up and seated him on his mother’s hips. “You shouldn’t be carrying him anymore,” he chastised.

“I’m fine,” she said, pressing a kiss on Benjen’s cheek.

“Don’t I get one?” Jon asked.

“Ser Davos is watching.”

Conceding with a sigh, Jon said, “Why didn’t you summon Maester Wolkan to your chambers? Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine, Jon. I just needed to stretch my legs, that’s all.”

“What did he say? Did he say if—“ His eyes lowered to her rounded stomach.

A smirk played at the corner of Sansa’s lips. “He said I was carrying low.”

“Well, with all due respect to Maester Wolkan, I think I know my lady wife’s body better than he does.”

“Jon, please,” Sansa chastised, trying to suppress a giggle, “not here.”

As if to drive the point home, Benjen reached out and yanked on Jon’s beard.

It was a strange sight for Bran—seeing a sister and brother who never had much to do with one another in his memories, now as a pair. With a child cradled in their midst. Strange as it was though, it was a pretty picture. One that warmed Bran’s heart, but one that didn’t need his attention.

He stepped out into the vacuum once more, became weightless as the rustling sound of time washed him ashore at the present. Back in Winterfell’s Godwood, as his senses attuned to reality once more, he stared at the spot where Sansa had disappeared into the castle. The guilt he had felt watching her leave still gnawed at him. He wondered if an assurance of a gentler future would help ease her suffering.

After much thought he decided against telling her. She was where she needed to be for the hurdles ahead. A peek into the future could set her off course, make her complacent. Fear of the uncertain, of every possibility; fear for survival—she needed it to will herself ahead. She always did.

Dangerous things they were—these glimpses into the future. They had ruined so many great men, taken so many lives, laid waste to so many cities. Yes, the obsession with seers’ visions—Prophecies. Dangerous things indeed. But curious none the less.

The whispering of leaves resumed. Bran surrendered to them, swimming through the vacuum once more for answers. Answers behind a great man’s quest consumed by prophecies.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the scene by the Heart Tree last episode broke my heart so I had to write something to salvage it. Hope you enjoyed!


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